


Strain

by AustralianSpy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Apocalypse, Explicit Language, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AustralianSpy/pseuds/AustralianSpy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enemies aren't so bad, when they're all you have. And Jim Moriarty is all Sherlock has, now. Now that everything's gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jim is laying on the pavement, on his back. Sleeves rolled up and arms folded under his head. His eyes are closed, basking in the warm sun above them. His tie is loosened, as well. It makes Sherlock roll his eyes. Even now, after everything, he insists on it. A tie. Who is he trying to impress? The Undead aren’t even slightly overawed by the checkered one he’s elected to wear today. Maybe Jim is hoping he’ll strangle him with it, sometime. It’d be more merciful than the death he might suffer, otherwise.

The ground is hard. Sherlock is sitting cross-legged, a radio in front of him. He stares intently at it, as if his gaze can cause a signal to come through. Past experience has proven this not to be the case, but it hasn’t and won’t stop him from trying.

Sherlock’s stomach growls. He could eat. They have enough rations for them both to eat, today. Luckily for them both, they were never big on meals, before. Thinking about it now, though, it occurs to Sherlock that it was a comfort, always knowing there was food in the fridge, even if he didn’t want it. The phrase you don’t know what you have until it’s gone comes to mind, and makes him scoff aloud.

The noise catches Jim’s attention. A few paces away, he lazily opens an eye, its singular gaze drifting over to Sherlock.

“Something funny?”

“Thinking of clichés.”

“Feeling romantic, then.”

“No. Feeling silly.”

“Thought of anything new, yet?”

Sherlock exhales noisily through his nose, the sound one of irritation. “Why do you insist on asking? I’ve thought of numerous solutions, but have no way of testing a single one.”

“You know that isn’t true.”

He rubs at the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Quit being stupid.”

“Quit being stubborn.”

“We tried it before.”

“We had a ball.”

“We nearly died.”

“Same thing.”

He rises to his feet, slowly and purposefully. These conversations with Jim grate on his nerves. “Even if we managed to acquire what we need from the storerooms below, what if I were to fail? There is no other alternative. Nowhere else to gather supplies necessary to work on a cure.” He paces as he speaks, prowling around the rooftop.

“We would think of something else.”

Sherlock snorts derisively. “You’re terribly optimistic. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Someone has to be, you know. You’re not going to do it.”

Of course he isn’t. They’re stranded in the thick of London. They’re lucky to gather canned food now and again. The streets are teaming with the Undead. They couldn’t even make it out of the city if they tried. Not alive, anyways.

“Your optimism is dampened by your usual talk of suicide.”

“Wrong. That’s a sunny route to take, in my opinion,” Jim chuckles. “Quick and painless. I’d prefer it over having the flesh torn from my body. Too messy.”

“Only you would be concerned about the mess.”

“Well, there’d be no one to clean it up. The pavement would look hideous.”

Sherlock stops at the edge of the roof, stepping up carefully onto the ledge. His eyes scan the ground below, with a cool detachment. There’s nothing new to see. Scores of Undead ambling aimlessly around, all in various states of disarray and dismemberment. As always, their low moans can be heard in the distance. Their sound is a constant undertone, day in and day out. He barely notices it, now. Not unless it ceases or grows louder.

“What of the fire escape?”

A few seconds of silence on the other man’s part lapse, and Sherlock hears rustling fabric behind him as Jim sits up, presumably turning around to face him with interest.

“I’m assuming it’s still in working order,” Sherlock continues.

“Most likely. We haven’t used it yet due to the noise. Attracts too much attention to be useful on a supply run.”

“Obviously.” Below, a small group of Undead are squabbling over something. A rat, perhaps.

“You want to use it to get into lower levels of the hospital.”

“Yes.”

“And you know why that’s a poor decision.”

Sherlock’s lips press into a thin scowl of annoyance. Of course he knows. But really, when are they able to make a good decision? Everything’s wrought with risk. “Of course. We might attract one of the hordes locked in the building. They may follow us out a window and onto the escape.” He pauses. “There’d be no stopping them from making their way up to the roof. We would be trapped.”

“As long as you’re aware.”

He finally turns back around. He gazes back at Jim, remaining perilously perched upon the ledge. He had been right. Jim is sitting up, now, propped up on a hand. His head is cocked to the side as he regards Sherlock with a vague sort of interest. He looks almost amused that Sherlock is even suggesting this. The look irritates him. Hateful man.

“Of course I’m aware,” he says shortly, turning about all the way and hopping back away from the edge of the rooftop. “Don’t insult my intelligence.” He strides over to the strongbox they’d managed to lug up onto the roof, and throws it open noisily. Behind him, he hears Jim lay down again.

“We might only be able to manage one trip,” Jim drawls.

Sherlock crouches down, rummaging through the contents of the box. He pulls out two duffel bags, Jim’s preferred pistol, and a rifle. “We don’t know that for certain,” Sherlock sighs. “We haven’t entirely proven that theory.”

“No, but it seems very likely.” He hears a clicking sound drifting through the air. The noises of a lighter struggling to make a spark. “They seem to have some sort of memory, if only short-term. They may remember we entered the laboratories. They’ll be more lurking within.” 

“Quit wasting our cigarettes,” Sherlock replies, as he shoves the contents of the box around, searching for a torch. The hospital will be dark.

“I’m not wasting. I’m savoring,” comes the answer, punctuated with the sighing exhale of smoke.

“Being wistful isn’t the same as savoring.” Sherlock pulls the strongbox closed.

“Is it so wrong for me to hope I die of something merciful, like lung cancer?”

He tosses the pistol at Jim. It lands square on his stomach, eliciting a small grunt from him. “Shut up.”

He turns away as Jim sits back up once more, dragging at his cigarette.  “Didn’t your mother teach you not to throw firearms?” He sets the pistol aside. He one-handedly straightens his tie, then hauls to his feet. Cigarette perched between his lips, he stoops, snatching the gun back up.

“She did. She also taught me not to associate with the criminally insane. Neither is going well.”

Jim snorts in amusement, then holds out the cigarette between two fingers. Sherlock takes it from him and shoves a duffel bag into his outstretched hand in replacement. “You’ll need that,” he says, turning his head to exhale smoke from his nose.

The man slips his hand through the loop of the handle, so that it’s hanging from the crook of his elbow. “If I recall, we have no more extra clips,” he’s saying. Sherlock turns his head back to look at him.

“We do not.”

“Oh, lovely,” Jim smiles. “I love when the odds are against us.”

“You must be the sort that finds Russian roulette to be very dull.”

Jim reaches out, plucking the cigarette away from him. With a cheeky grin, it finds its way between his lips again. “Five to one odds that I’ll live? Booooring.”

“Glad my only companion is deranged and suicidal.”

“I don’t blame you. I’m great fun at parties.”

Sherlock suppresses the urge to roll his eyes as he shoulders past him. “Let me know if you get invited to another soirée. I’d love to see you in action.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” comes the dry answer.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock silently shoves the door open, leading into the stairwell. Behind him, Jim is flicking ash onto the ground as he follows. He has to smack the torch against his hand once or twice, but it eventually flickers on. Its beam bobs and swerves unsteadily as Sherlock twitches its light this way and that. Just because they regularly check to make sure the stairwell is still clear, doesn’t mean that it’s safe. From further down, scratching noises are crawling up the stairwell, to their ears. The Undead, as always, are scraping at the doors as if to check if they’re still closed off.

He and Jim had boarded up the doors to the best of their ability: boards upon boards of wood, desks and heavy items placed in front of them. The barricades are vital. They keep the Undead at bay. Before now, they’d never had an interest in getting into those floors of the hospital. As far as they cared, the Undead could have them. The only door that remains clear is the emergency exit located at the very bottom of the stairwell. This is the door they used during supply runs. It leads outwards into a back alley that generally manages to remain Undead-free. The door is silent and the exit point remote enough to provide for easy escapes and slipping-ins. On the way back, they only have to make certain that there are no corpses following them – which means it can’t be used, now. The sheer volume of Undead that would be following them… Well, they couldn’t be filling the stairwell with them, could they? And they absolutely won't be unboarding the doors to either the ground or first floors.

Jim is silent now, behind him, aside from the occasional breath of smoke. Sherlock holds out a hand to him, without looking back. There’s a soft jangle as Jim removes the keys from his belt and places them in the outstretched hand. With as little noise as possible, he unlocks the door and pulls it open.

His eyes scan the corridor with a practiced sort of caution. The floor itself is dilapidated. The hospital had been a hive of activity, after all; when things first began. Beds, desks, and chairs over-turned or pushed into odd places. The floor is littered with dirt, dark stains from past unfortunate incidents, and garbage. There’s the occasional ceiling tile that fell to the ground. Some hang from the ceiling, barely holding on. Loose wires spiderweb and snake along walls and drape from gaps in the ceiling. They’re useful, at times. Take a knife to them, and they make for excellent lengths of makeshift rope.

Below their feet, Sherlock can hear the sounds of the Undead. It always strikes him as eerie and surreal. It’s like they’re in their own little space of limbo, set apart from the macabre existence below them. He swings his bag around, so that it’s slung on his back, and he shifts his rifle into both hands. He hears the grinding sound of Jim snuffing out his cigarette on the floor with his heel, then the click of his cocking his pistol from behind.

As he reaches the window, he presses his ear against the dirty glass, listening. The fire escape is just outside. Hearing no noise to indicate that the Undead are already there, he sets his rifle aside. He reaches up to twist the knob and unlock the window, then throws it open before he snatches up his firearm once more.

Sherlock gracefully swings himself through the opening, landing carefully on the platform of the escape, to prevent clattering about. Jim steps purposefully after him, noiseless. Sherlock contemplates closing the window behind them, but decides against it.

“Are you ready?”

 “I’m always ready to butt heads with Death, Sherlock. Onward.”

 Sherlock nods. They take each step downward with meticulous care. No reason to be unnecessarily loud. Halfway down, Jim’s voice breathes into his ear.

 “I hope you brought some sort of distraction.”

Sherlock sighs through his nose. He knows what Jim means. The fire escape puts them on the first floor of the building, seeing as they don’t plan on taking it all the way to the ground. Any attempts to go in from the street would inevitably lead to a horde or two following them in, despite any distractions. They can’t have that sort of influx of Undead into the building: they may force their way through the north-western stairwell doors just through sheer volume, alone. The first floor gives them access to the south-eastern stairwell, which connects the basement, ground, and first floors. They’d never bothered to seal it up, seeing as it didn’t reach to the roof or the top floor. But if they’re followed into the stairwell in their quest down to the basement? They might never get out again.

He deigns not to respond to Jim, hoping his silence suffices to say that Jim’s question is foolish. As their feet touch down on the platform of the escape attached just outside of the first floor windows, they cease their decent. Sherlock allows his bag to fall down his shoulder, into his arms. He awkwardly pilfers through it, hindered by his rifle. He manages to pull out what he’s searching for, and shoves the bag and rifle into Jim’s arms. He looks cross, but makes no verbal protest.

Being as quiet about it as one can be, Sherlock shoves the edge of the crowbar into the seam of the window, putting his weight on it in hopes of working it open. It takes a minute — Jim testily shifting from foot to foot in his impatience — until the window gives a last pained groan and is heaved open.

Sherlock hastily exchanges the crowbar for his gun and bag, shoving the tool towards Jim as he roughly snatches for his gear.

 “Consider asking nicely, next time,” Jim snaps, voice hushed as he stashes the crowbar back into the bag for Sherlock.

 Sherlock refuses to dignify that with a response. He instead re-shoulders his bag. Rifle in hand, he crouches down in front of the newly-opened window, squinting his eyes to peer in. Sunlight tinged vaguely orange as sunset descends on them filters in from behind him, providing at least some lighting. But the windows are only so large, and the light only reaches so far. Only a few metres in, Sherlock can barely make out precisely what anything is. _Is that a desk, there? Shuffling. Off to the left. That must be one of them_. Jim’s silence behind Sherlock is tense, waiting for the man to enter before him.

Finally, he swings a leg over the windowsill, to clamber with some grace into the hospital. Jim follows shortly behind him, dropping down at his shoulder.

They have tried this sort of excursion, before, by climbing down the fire escape the whole way and entering through the main entrance on the ground floor — earning them the knowledge of just how many Undead could follow them in at one time. The event had nearly cost them both their lives, and they had made it no further than halfway to the stairwell that led to the basement before they saw their error and were forced to double back. Never have they been successful about it. The odds are hardly in their favor.

They were quite nearly silent, yet Sherlock can see a head swivel their way. Its form is blurry and indistinct in the darkness, and he tenses, waiting for it to begin lumbering their way. It doesn’t, though, as if deciding they aren’t particularly appetizing, and his shoulders relax.

That doesn’t solve their problem, of course. Now that they’re inside, the muffled dragging of dead-weight feet feels like an oppressive metronome, coming from everywhere at once in the darkness and punctuated with the moaning death-rattle that carries along with it. Somehow, they’re making the fatal mistake of shoving their feet into a snake’s nest, waiting to see if anything snaps at them.

The distraction comes first — designated as Jim’s job, seeing as he’s slightly more agile than Sherlock is. An air-horn — only very recently acquired — duct-taped to ensure a continued wailing. Sherlock edges his way along the wall, towards the south-eastern stairwell and in the opposite direction of Jim’s hiding place. He cringes involuntarily as the caterwauling begins. Nearly synchronously, though at varying intervals of deliberate slowness, heads turn around the room towards the sound. Somehow over the din, he hears the sound of Jim skirting towards him. The Undead can’t care less; the loud sounds are significantly more interesting at the moment.

Sherlock’s nearly to the stairwell door when Jim rejoins him. Always lithe, that one. Despite his inherently posh attitude, he always manages to have an unparalleled agility.

The staircase, of course, is another thing entirely. They’ve never even managed their way _in_ before. Sherlock can only dread the worst, though he keeps it silently to himself. There’s no telling what’s inside. Perhaps they'd just never quite tried hard enough? 

Jim already has out his handgun.

They burst through the door onto the landing, as quietly as one can manage to do so. They’re greeted not by silence, considering the racket behind them, but at least a significant lack of a decaying being standing with ghoulish, empty eyes and slack-jaw expression to welcome them.

Further down, they aren’t nearly so lucky. Jim, descending first, doesn’t go much further down than a floor before Sherlock hears a snarl of irritation from him. He rounds the corner to find the man shoving a corpse away from him, rotting fingers clawing at the criminal’s arms as Jim jerks away before they can find purchase.

There’s eight, by Sherlock’s count, but that’s merely those visible and they’ve still got the basement to cover. There’s no telling what’s wandered its way down there.

Sherlock can feel his senses heighten under their claustrophobic conditions. First Jim is at his shoulder, pressed near him in the condensed space of the landing. He can feel the very muscle of the man’s shoulders flexing and contracting. The oppressive smell of decaying flesh in such an enclosed space makes his eyes water. The first gunshot rings out — Jim firing as a body throws itself onto him — and the sound rings deafeningly in Sherlock’s ears, bouncing off the walls in a cacophony. In the brief moment Sherlock’s able to glimpse the man, his expression looks dazed from the ear-splitting sound.

Knives suffice after that initial discharge. A blade that sticks in the skull and forces Sherlock to heave each Undead away with a shove from his foot, sending them tumbling down the stairs. His ragged breaths of exertion are the only sound he can hear, now, coupled with the blood pumping loudly through his veins.

He turns to Jim as he pushes a last Undead aside.

The man is mid-wobble, legs buckling under the weight of two bodies simultaneously gnashing their teeth and howling their deranged hunger. Half a second, and Jim’s heel slips backwards, to send him crashing down the stairwell; barely enough time to blink, as the criminal grabs onto the tattered remains of an Undead’s shirt, tugging hard and twisting to pull himself forward and throw the thing backwards behind him, where it rolls down; a breath, and as the last Undead lurches onto Jim, wrapping him in an unholy hug, his blade is out.

“Look at you, nearly dying,” Sherlock snorts, shouldering past the wide-eyed, panting criminal that’s kicking away the body from him, both blade and self stained with the dark, thick blood. “Here I thought I might have to be going on alone, seeing as you’d have been occupying the stomachs of several different Undead before long. You know they like the freshly-deceased.”

Jim wipes sloppily at the gore on his shirt, an unpleasant grin curling his mouth. “Darling, they won’t take my body from your side.”

“Unfortunate. I imagine you’ll make for an annoying reanimated corpse.”

Neither stops their course, beelining straight for the basement door.

“Not what I meant. I hope you’ll keep me.”

“I might. You’d be considerably less chatty company. It’d be a relief.”

Jim’s smirk in response is nearly audible. Sherlock has half a mind to shush him.

It’s a considerable relief to open the door to the basement and find only a single Undead. Likely an assistant that had locked himself inside. Sherlock had anticipated so much more than that. Jim makes short work of him whilst Sherlock busies himself. He sets his sidearms down to place his full attention on the duffle bag. He’s forced to be economical about what he can put inside, not only accounting for what will fit and what won’t, but for what will be hinderingly heavy, or what might possibly break. Vials and ‘scopes and instruments are placed inside with the utmost of care and scrutiny, despite what little time is available to them. They have no way of knowing if any of their corpse-like pursuers had followed into the stairwell. An uphill battle is not one they wish to fight, especially when outnumbered.

He can practically hear Jim being impatient somewhere near the door.

He checks and double-checks the contents of the duffle bag, pursing his lips uncertainly. If this isn’t all they need, it would just be too bad. They likely won’t try this again. Sherlock glances over his shoulder at Jim. He’s indeed stood near the door, knife in his right hand and pistol in his left, occasionally sparing glances Sherlock’s way. “Are we done, or are we spending the night here, hm?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and zips up the bag, arm going through the strap and securing the bag under his arm as he grabs for his rifle. The bag is indeed unwieldy, and even when he shoves it more towards his back, it’s still difficult to maneuver both body and rifle. It’ll have to do.

“Do quit your fussing,” Sherlock says, coolly, inspiring Jim to make a childish face in retort. “Open the door, you idiot. I haven’t got hands for it. I’ll lead the way after.”

The other raises a dubious eyebrow at him. “Do you really think that wise? You’re a bit otherwise occupied.” He gestures with a hand towards the bag uncomfortably nestled beneath Sherlock’s arm. The only response he’s given is a testy silence. Jim snorts and shakes his head.  

It’s now time to see just how many Undead had followed them into the stairwell. Sherlock has no desire to battle while mounting stairs.

It appears their distraction was indeed enough, aside from a single reanimated corpse stumbling its way around on the first floor landing which Sherlock quickly dispatches with an awkward blow to the head with the butt of his rifle. Damn that bag.

But the actual first floor? Well. The two press their backs against the wall just to the side of the stairwell door, leading out into it. Jim, having insisted he at least take point for _this_ portion, is the one to peer his head out, slowly. Sherlock stares intently at him, to wait for his observations.

“Christ,” the smaller man murmurs, voice very, very low. “They’ve all spread back out. Don’t give a care for the racket that airhorn’s making, anymore. They aren’t condensed away from the window we came in through.” Jim retracts his head, to turn back to Sherlock. Sherlock purses his lips.

“Not as if we’ve any other way out. Ground floor isn’t an option.”

“I’m not an imbecile. I’m not suggesting it is.”

“Well, then I suppose you’d best start shooting, hm?”

They move in a frenzy. They don’t stay in the same place for long. They can’t. If they do, they’ll be jostled into a corner they might not escape from. Sherlock knows that somewhere along the way, Jim ceases to be at his shoulder, but he can still hear him, somewhere, so he doesn’t worry. The man can handle himself. And really, Sherlock’s main concern is the window. He needs to be there, and quickly. He practically catapults through the thing upon reaching it, nearly throwing himself over the opposite railing to tumble to the ground below. Luckily, he catches himself and straightens in time to shove a corpse trailing him through the window back through the opening via a knife plunged through its skull.

He takes the stairs of the fire escape two at a time, and the entire apparatus shakes until he’s clambering onto the second floor.

Sherlock’s chest is heaving, and he can hear his heart pounding in his ears. He must’ve gotten out of shape, sitting around on the rooftop for so long. Unacceptable. He takes another second to collect himself, before heading to the stairwell up to the roof.

Behind him, from the darkness, there’s a choked sound, like words stuck in a person’s throat.  

“Sherlock?”

That voice. _That voice_.

“ _Sherlock_.”

He can’t move. It’s as if every fibre of his being has been reduced to lead, weighing him down, preventing him from turning to the source of his name. But he knows. _He knows_ , and the relief and joy that washes over him nearly makes his knees buckle as he manages out a shaky whisper in return.

“John.”

The single word is like a break in the levy, and all of his tension and shock washes out of him. He turns, taking in the so, _so_ welcome appearance of his friend. Pallid. Grayer than before, and looking as if he hadn’t shaved in a week — no, six days. More gaunt than he remembers — Ten pounds lighter? No, easily twelve. — and certainly with a more wary look about him. High perspiration, constriction of the pupils despite the darkness. Too far off from the side of the window to be in the light. Elevated heart-rate? Tremors in the hands, unsteady gaze. He’s leaning heavily on a wall with his shoulder, being oh-so careful not to press his arm against it, as well. Body turned away — arm hidden — injury? — was he? — _there’s blood on his sleeve, I can see it_ — too fresh to be anything but his — _no_.

But it doesn’t matter. Not in the slightest. It should, but it doesn’t, because _here is John_. It’s nothing, surely. Just a little wound. Nothing important. Perhaps he should hug him, for being here. Have they ever hugged, before? — no, he doesn’t think so. Now’s an excellent time to start. _Hello, John Watson, blogger extraordinaire, and welcome to the rise of the corpses. Shall we hug?_

“John Hamish Watson, where have you been?” Sherlock chastises lightly, as if it hasn’t been months and an apocalypse since they’d last seen one another.

John’s mouth opens, looking halfway between a disbelieving laugh, and perhaps a scold — No, there’s worry, there. Fear. Is he about to tell him away? — _no, John, don’t_. But then John’s arm lifts and he advances a few steps forward, to urge Sherlock back, and suddenly there’s a pistol barring the way between himself and John.

Sherlock can only stand there stupidly. He was halfway to raising a hand, to pat John on the arm, but now he’s frozen in mid-motion, staring. He’s still too bewildered by John’s presence at all to be incredulous about this.

“Sherlock, please. Just — just stay there, okay? Please.”

Sherlock’s tongue fumbles a moment to find any words. _Talk, you moron._ “John, come now. Put that down.” He tries to complete the motion his hand had started a moment ago, but this time the trajectory’s changed to try and push the firearm down. _So ridiculous that he’d even be leveling that at me. Very rude, John Watson._

But John visibly stiffens, and the whites of his eyes becoming clearer and — _why are you panicking, John? Stop._ — more wild. The man turns bodily, keeping his presumably injured arm away from him, not allowing Sherlock — _I see it, John, it’s nothing_ — to see it any better.

“No,” John says, voice too loud and too hoarse. “Keep away. I meant it. Keep away. I don’t know when—.” His voice falters, and his expression turns pained.

Sherlock’s arm lowers, — _God, don’t make that face, John_ — reluctantly.

“What in God’s name is the matter with you?” Sherlock demands, though lightly. _Good, keep the light mood. Good. Yes._

John shakes his head, face still looking just as aggrieved. “You — you never said there were any of them down there. I didn’t know — I’m sorry, Sh—.” He cuts off, when there’s suddenly the barest scuffling sounds, and the darkness uncut by dying sunlight through the windows begins to move.

Not even a second elapses before the shifting shadows behind him can be recognized as Jim, barrel of his pistol held against the back of John’s head.


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh, goodie. If it isn’t Doctor Watson,” Jim sneers. His head slowly sways back and forth, like a snake idly inspecting its prey. “And here I was, hoping you’d met an untimely cannibalistic end.” How had Jim gotten into the room without him realizing? The fire escape is a noisy thing. How had his entry through the window escaped his notice? The man’s even panting slightly, from his previous exertion downstairs. God, he’d been _so_ distracted by John—.

Sherlock remarks, “You have this particular knack for ruining a moment. I’d be impressed if this instance didn’t involve my blogger.” Jim doesn’t move his gun. John doesn’t lower his, either.

“I feel obligated to point out the pistol your blogger has trained on you.”

“Sherlock. Please.”

“I suppose he’s right. We’re reunited and you’ve got a gun on me? I know we parted on bad terms — incinerated drapes and all — but this is hardly necessary.” Jim shifting his stance alarms Sherlock as he finishes, and he hefts his rifle up. As if he could actually manage to discharge it without running the risk of mortally wounding John, as well. Not an acceptable casualty. Not in the slightest. Jim will call his bluff. He always does. Horrid man. Why is he tagging along with him, again?

“I’m so sorry,” John repeats, face pleading. His hand is shaking. John’s aim is never unsteady. He never tremors with a pistol clenched in his fingers. _Control yourself, blogger_. “The batteries in the radios wouldn’t have lasted forever. You told me where you were, and — God, Sherlock, you actually thought I’d stay put, didn’t you? — but I couldn’t just let you stick it out with him the whole time. I couldn’t. You said you were holed up on the roof, and I thought — I thought I’d come in through the alley, with just the few corpses, up the fire escape. You said you’d done it before — you’d mentioned the escape, once—. It was stupid, I’m so sorry.”

“Jim, dear. _Put it down_ ,” Sherlock orders, voice cold and unamused. John doesn’t seem to understand why he’s being ignored; why the other two men are simply talking over him. _John, stop. Stop looking at me that way at once_. John’s a bit paler, now — _is that possible?_

“You’re being willfully asinine, Sherlock,” Jim chastises in a soft, singsong tone. “You aren’t listening to the poor fellow. Can’t you see it?”

Of course Sherlock can see it. His eyes can, anyways. They saw it immediately. It still hasn’t registered with his brain. “Shut up.”

For a few horrifying seconds, John’s eyes are swimming — tears of frustration boiling on the edge, though they don’t spill over. The sight makes Sherlock’s legs feel weak. “You aren’t listening. Why aren’t you listening?”

“Stop being silly, John. What’s gotten into you? Come upstairs.”

“I can’t, Sherlock. Please.” Sherlock’s foot nudges forward, wanting to close some of the gap between himself and John regardless of the barrel he’s staring down. The motion makes John’s voice hike up a pitch, and the tremor in his hand increase. _He couldn’t hit a_ wall, _with a hand like that_. “Sherlock! No. Just. Stay put. You can’t. Leave. Please. I’m sorry. I thought... I thought this would work. I thought it would all be fine.”

Sherlock refuses to take a step back. He can feel Jim eyeing him, expression neutral. “John. Haven’t I told you to quit that, already? Everything is fine. You’ve made it.”

“Please go, Sherlock. Please. I can’t — I can’t have you here when it happens. I’ve only ever heard horrible things about it. And from what I’ve seen, I—”

“JOHN.”

His sudden shout startles not only John, but Jim, as well. “Indoor voices,” Jim hisses. “Library rules apply when in the presence of the Undead.”

“John, I refuse to —”

“ _I was bitten_. I came to find you, and it was a mistake. They were in the alley, and— it was a mistake and I’m sorry. I’m not giving you a choice, Sherlock.” Sudden nerve returns to John’s tone. He licks his lips, the lines of his face becoming more resolute and determined. “Not this time. I _will_ shoot you if you get near. Don’t think I won’t. I’d rather —,” he chokes on his own words, having to clear his throat to muscle through the emotion thickening them. “I’d rather you die that way, than having me — well, you know. You always know. _Why can’t you see it now?_ ”

“Because he’s sentimental, Johnny. In the department of John Watson,” Jim says disdainfully. “He haunts that radio at all hours. Suppose he won’t be, anymore. He might not do it, but I have no qualms with pumping lead through your skull. Survival of the fittest.”

Sherlock stares uncomprehendingly at John. He closes his eyes. He takes shallow breaths, attempting to regain focus and control as his brain finally begins to recognize the truth he’s been trying to ignore. When he opens them again, he sees Jim’s gaze is on the back of John’s head, prepared to send a bullet ripping through it with the twitch of his index finger.

“No. Jim, shut up. I told you to shut up.”

Jim does no such thing. Not that Sherlock actually expects him to. “It’ll be terrible to watch. You know it. We’ve watched them turn, before. We can’t be sure, but it looks excruciating for the victim involved. Can you sit by when the ill is dear John Watson?”

He’s being cruel. That must be his motive, because inspiring mercy is not a trade that Jim dabbles in. Jim means to simply be cruel to him. He’s certain that John is saying something, as well; but his voice sounds distant, as if it’s at the other end of a long tunnel. He can’t quite make out the words.

Sherlock lowers his rifle, so that it’s hanging at his side in the grip of one hand. Almost dejectedly. John’s shoulders visibly sag at the sight of the defeat dragging at every feature of Sherlock’s face — every muscle of his body. Jim straightens up, and presses the barrel of his gun more firmly against John’s head. The decision seems to have been made.

John’s eyes close, and his gun lowers, as well.

Jim curses loudly as the bullet tears through the ex-soldier’s forehead. Blood splatters as Jim totters sideways and out of the way. The body crumples to the floor like a doll. As if it was never a man at all. Never a best friend. Never a beacon in Sherlock’s life.

Jim never discharged his weapon.

Sherlock stands like a statue, arm still rigidly outstretched, though his hand shakes violently. The pistol in his grip is sticky with red. He stares sightlessly into the space John had just occupied. He can’t bring himself to look down. What lies in a pool at his feet isn’t his friend. It’s some lifeless husk. Some mass of flesh and fluid that doesn’t embody even a fraction of John Hamish Watson, ex-British Army doctor and Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

Somewhere off to the side, Jim is eyeing him warily, speckled with crimson spray. Sherlock says nothing as he drops his firearm. The pistol clatters to the ground, to join the rifle already discarded there in favor of the smaller firearm from inside Sherlock's jacket. The sound is deafening in the silence. He returns to the roof without a word.

He doesn’t speak to Jim again for nine days.


	4. Chapter 4

“He’s just like any other dead rat, you know. I wish you’d quit sulking.”

“You’d know quite a lot about rodents, I imagine.”

“Ha ha. Yes. I suppose I would, wouldn’t I? We all die, you know. In the end. Especially now. Why dwell on it? He’s not the first to go, and he won’t be the last.”

“Alluding towards our own deaths? I thought you fancied us immortal.”

“I was speaking more of... _others_.”

“Are there other survivors, now? You always talk as if we’re the only ones left on the planet.”

“Are you surprised? It’s a bit romantic. The greatest minds in the world are now the only minds.”

“You would enjoy that sort of morbidly poetic thing, wouldn’t you?”

“I wrote you a love letter using semtex and sobbing suicide bombers. You think I wouldn’t find something a bit beautiful in the apocalypse?”

“Are you still talking?”

“Are you still haunting that radio as if you’ll hear his voice?”

Sherlock falls into an angry, tight-lipped silence. Of course he is. He’s had the radio in front of him day and night, waiting. He knows he’ll never hear John’s voice over it again. No matter how long he waits. He’d spent numerous nights, over several months, talking to his friend. They’d found the same frequency, but had never found each other. Traversing the streets is too difficult, in a city so big and so full of people. He’s felt Jim’s eyes on him time and again, watching, since the radio silence began. He knew Jim had been waiting for him to do something — say something. But he never had. Until now.

“He’s dead. We ought to leave. We’ve gotten what we’d like from this godforsaken building. Might as well venture out.”

Sherlock licks his teeth from behind his lips, in contemplation. “It would be foolish,” he finally says, voice low. “Leaving the city.”

“Of course. But you’ve got nothing tying you here, anymore. It’s why we stayed in the first — no, don’t even _try_ to pretend that’s not why. And now it — he’s — gone, so we’re going, too.”

He lifts his head, staring across the rooftop at Jim. He had to have been stupid to have ever believed that Jim hadn’t realized from the beginning. That he’d stayed in hopes that a stationary position would bring John to him. Oh, but how right he’d been. Luring the ex-soldier in with the notions of a safe passage up to the rooftop. Little had any of them known that Undead had wandered into the alleyway below the fire-escape, that day. That alleyway that more often than not had been nearly empty. Why had he ever mentioned the fire escape at all? It was a stupid thing to use to travel anywhere. Too noisy, especially to get the ladder to descend to the ground. _Why?_

“The moving will be slow.”

The criminal shrugs up a shoulder absently. “Yes. And? We’ve all the time in the world. We’ll pack food, weapons, a supply here and there, and that nonsense we picked up from the basement.”

“‘Nonsense’.”

“You know what I mean.”

Yes. A cure. That was the whole point of the contents of the duffle-bag nestled alongside their strongbox.

“When will we move?” Sherlock looks off to one side. Off over the rooftops of all the other buildings sprawling around them. Only now does it occur to him how desolate it how looks, simply because it’s minus one more soul.

“Whenever we can manage it. Perhaps take a day to pack up, be certain everything’s accounted for.”

Sherlock nods silently to himself.

And that’s exactly what they do. It takes two days rather then one, as they spend long hours squabbling over what’s needed and what isn’t. What’s light enough to carry and what would be unreasonable to cart along.

At daybreak on the third day, they’re prepared. As Jim double-checks their inventory, Sherlock finds his way down the stairwell.

His feet echo softly through the deserted second floor. Light from the windows reveal dust, floating in the air. Aside from himself, the dust appears to be the most alive thing in the room.

_Dust is eloquent._

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. He isn’t sure why he expected any smell. It’s too early. There’s only the metallic hints of dried blood. He closes his eyes. He can’t quite feel his feet. They don’t want to move, and he isn’t sure how long he stands there before they do.

Each step is slow. Painfully so, and deliberate, to bring himself to the crumpled mass somewhat near the wall. He tries not to look at it — _really_ look at it. He can’t.

The flesh is hard. Cold. It isn’t alive.

Sherlock can’t breathe.

His fingers are fumbling. It takes far too long for them to brush against metal, to curl around the thin chain and gingerly remove it with all the ceremony the lifeless form deserved.

As Sherlock ascends the stairs to rejoin Jim, he slips the chain over his head, and tucks it under his shirt. The tags clang just once, softly, until the fabric settles over them and silences them.


End file.
